Manny Rios, 62, retired citrus pest management advisor, has spent the three years since his wife Elaine’s death turning down every social invite, convinced any attempt to meet someone new is a betrayal, even as his empty central Florida house feels bigger by the week. He only agreed to come to the annual Frostproof Citrus Festival because his 10-year-old granddaughter begged him to enter the homemade jam contest, and he’d spent three months perfecting a tangerine-habanero recipe that landed him third place. He ducked into the 4H beer tent as soon as the awards were over, desperate to avoid the crowd of acquaintances lining up to clap him on the back and ask when he’d stop hiding from the world.
The woman behind the bar wipes a frosty pint glass with a stained checkered rag, and when she looks up, Manny freezes. He’d know that crinkle at the corner of her hazel eyes anywhere: Lila Mae Carter, 60, the girl who ran the grove office desk when he first got hired straight out of community college in 1983. He hasn’t seen her since he and Elaine got married in 1987, when she’d moved away to Jacksonville for a bank job.
She sets the glass down slow, leans across the bar until she’s close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint fizz of the orange seltzer she’s sipping on her break, the collar of her faded orange festival flannel slipping just enough to show the faint silver outline of a citrus blossom tattoo on her collarbone. “Manny Rios. Still got that scar above your left eyebrow from when you fell off that 20-foot ladder checking for greening in ‘89, I see.”
He huffs a laugh, rubs the scar self-consciously. He’d forgotten she was there that day, had driven him to the ER and teased him the whole ride for being too stubborn to wait for a spotter. She slides a cold IPA across the bar, their fingers brushing when he reaches for it, the jolt of the contact sharp enough that he almost drops the glass. He’s torn instantly, half of him screaming that he should leave, that talking to her, feeling anything other than grief for Elaine, is wrong, the other half leaning in, hungry for the way she’s looking at him like he’s not just some sad widower everyone pities.
She leans against the bar across from him, swapping stories about the old grove crew, laughing so hard at his story about the time the county extension agent accidentally sprayed himself with insecticidal soap that she snorts, covering her mouth like she’s embarrassed. She tells him she moved back to town last year after her husband died of a heart attack, runs the 4H livestock program now, has three grandkids of her own. The crowd in the tent thins out fast when the first clap of thunder rumbles overhead, rain starting to lash against the vinyl sides of the tent.
“Rain’s gonna stick around for an hour at least,” she says, wiping down the last of the glasses, tucking her wallet into the back pocket of her high-waisted jeans. “I got a jar of that key lime pie moonshine you used to love back in the day in my truck. Wanna wait it out with me?”
Manny’s hand goes to the worn photo of Elaine in his flannel pocket, his throat tight. He’d promised himself he’d never even consider going out with anyone else, that he’d honor their 38 years of marriage by staying alone until he died. But Lila’s looking at him, no pity, no expectation, just that same lazy smirk she had when she’d sneak him extra donuts from the office break room 40 years earlier, and he nods before he can talk himself out of it.
They run through the rain, the sharp, sweet scent of wet citrus leaves hitting him as they dart between vendor tents, his hand on the small of her back to steady her when she slips on a patch of mud, her arm slung tight around his waist, both of them laughing so hard their sides hurt by the time they climb into the cab of her beat-up 1998 Ford F150, rain soaking through their flannels, hair plastered to their foreheads. She grabs a frayed wool blanket from the back seat, drapes it over both of their shoulders, their sides pressed tight together to share the warmth. She pops the lid off the mason jar of moonshine, takes a sip, passes it to him.
The rain patters hard against the truck roof, the faint sound of the festival band playing a George Strait cover drifting through the closed windows. He takes a sip of the moonshine, sweet and sharp, tasting exactly like he remembered. She reaches up, brushes a wet strand of hair off his forehead, her thumb brushing the curve of his cheek slow, gentle. He doesn’t pull away. He lifts the mason jar, clinks it against the one she’s holding, and takes another slow, sweet sip.
